


Shelter

by Cybertronic Purgatory (orphan_account)



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Cybertronic%20Purgatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny little vignette. In the captain's cabin of the Normandy, the Commander offers the General a brief moment of time in which to reflect upon what he has lost to the demands of duty… And potentially gained from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

"Tell me about Tarquin," Shepard said as she got up to pour herself a drink, and Victus could not look away from the delicateness of her bare naked feet moving now and again to the low background music. The small dance steps were clumsy but nonetheless endearing, as if she couldn't quite get a hang of the harmony between rhythm and body.

"What do you want me to say?" Victus muttered, looking down into the empty glass in his hands. "That he did the Ninth Platoon proud? That he did me proud?"

"Military platitudes are what we say when we're wearing the uniform, surrounded by nothing but duty. You walked through the door, you know the rules. Let the veneer drop." Her tone changed, softened. "For me."

He raised his gaze to meet hers, the green eyes haunted by deep dark circles. "That's still raw territory."

She came back and kneeled in front of him on the floor, one hand on his wrist. "Talk to me about it. I can't promise that the acuteness will ease, but… I can promise that I will listen."

Even through the clothing, he could feel her skin, the callouses of war hardening the hands that were so soft when they first met. The right one was wrapped in bandages, a damage courtesy of  _'reckless punching of hostile forces'_ , as she put it.

He liked that about Shepard. The warrior, the Commander, the soldier, all wrapped up in one; and yet that dropped when it was just the two of them. That, he admired: she could peel herself away from her work, but he… Struggled.

"What was he like as a kid?" she asked, trying to get him to talk.

"Tarquin's mother died at birth," Victus began, pressing out each word with great difficulty. "I took a leave from the military to make sure he got a good childhood. To tell you the truth, I needed the leave as well. Her death hit me hard." He'd never thought he would have this conversation – sons were meant to outlive their old fathers, damn it – much less with her, the fabled Commander Shepard.

Who was on her knees in front of him, wearing only a loose shirt and the scent of whiskey… And him.

"What was she like?"

"Intelligent. Artistic. Not a single violent streak in her." He chuckled. "My father hated her." Then he cleared his throat, shifting the focus. "Does all this talk of my long-dead wife not make you… Uncomfortable?"

"Not really," she said, her thumb moving up under the cuff of his sleeve to touch the bare skin between two plate segments. The way she always found a naked patch of skin and stroked her smooth fingertips against it… It never failed to undo something obscure within him. To make him calmer, at peace if only for a second. "We both have a loved one who died. Go on."

All these things he did not know about her. All the millions of stories and fates she kept. He figured that in due time, maybe she would tell him. At least he could offer her a story in return.

"Tarquin took after her, but he tried to hide it. A father always knows, though. He was never interested in the military, in the strategies of war and defense even when he applied himself."

"He was a good soldier."

"He shouldered a role forced upon him. He just had five more years before he could leave and pursue a life of his own." In his hands, the glass was beginning to crack ever so slightly. "No, he wasn't a good soldier, because he shouldn't have been one."

She eased the glass out of his grip before it shattered. "What did you want for him?"

Tarquin had always stubbornly refused Adrien's attempts at getting him to accept an early discharge and pursue his artistic side. They had fights when they were both off duty and at home in the massive apartment in Cipritine on Palaven, shouting and throwing around words and comments that hurt.  _It's not what she would have wanted! How do you know, she's been dead for over twenty years! Then trust me: it's not what I like to see you doing, either._  And the finality:  _It's not about want. It's about duty._

Between the bouts Adrien would wander the rooms where they once lived together, where the boxes of Tarquin's toys still stood in the corner, covered in dust. Behind the old panels lay all of Tarquin's hidden works – the graphics, the novels, the poetry fragments. All of his artistic expressions that he kept tucking away, as if ashamed.

That's what hurt Adrien the most. That his own son thought his true passion was something to be embarrassed about. That despite being just the two of them, there was a space large enough between them to fill up with misunderstandings and mistakes.

"At the end of the day," he said, eyes closed as he suppressed the turmoil of emotions, "I wanted his happiness."

It was all he could give her, though he trusted her enough to tell her everything one day – but this was not the time. Outside the walls of her cabin, a war was ravaging their galaxy. Planets burned and people died, and no matter how hard Shepard tried to offer a piece of sanctuary from it, he could not forget. Not just yet.

She seemed to understand, because she got up and planted a kiss on his forehead. "It's okay. It's just us tonight."

He leaned his heavy head against her belly, breathing in and out slowly as her hands stroked the naked skin of his throat. "When this war ends…" He drifted off, thinking about how he would still have to be primarch then, of the funeral he wanted to have, the rubble he needed to pick through, the Hierarchy to fix… But if he pictured there alongside him, it seemed less difficult. Less hard.

"I know," she said, straddling his lap on the couch as she kissed him, and he pulled her closer, careless that his claws were shredding the fine fabric of her shirt.

All he wanted was the moment they were currently in: for just a fraction of eternity, they could be together and chase away the loneliness and desperation.

All he wanted was her.


End file.
